Love may not be enough to wake a child in the morning, dress him, and get him to school, then to feed him at night, bathe him, and put him to bed. Still, can any of us imagine a childhood without it?
-Bumblebee bat, how do you see at night? -I make a squeaky sound that bounces back from whatever it hits. I see by hearing.
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
I loved everything about her, and I didn't care how dark she got. If anything it was what I loved the most, the veil of pain that fell across her face most of the day, and all of the night.
He understood how dangerous oaths could be. But Leo didn't care. "I'm coming back for you, Calypso," he said to the night wind. "I swear it on the River Styx.
Hunger has always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at my gauntly.
So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.
A brick could be used to help define your rigid beliefs. I put my beliefs to bed, along with the hooker I rented for the night.
A brick could be used to keep you warm at night, in the same way that a blanket could be used to smother a lover while they sleep.
Horror is not unimaginable, it has neither the face of a monster nor the bat-wings of a demon. It is calm and tranquil, and it is durable, lasting whole days and nights, months; years, perhaps. It is not mortal. It strikes at the eyes, only the eyes.
Cora didn't know a whole lot about wendigo, but there were ways in which they were just like people: they wanted above everything to live through the night ("Stay")
...celebrating the Eucharist as a remembrance of Christ means practicing God's justice towards neighbors, strangers, and enemies alike.
A blanket could be used like a trumpet could be used as a murder weapon. And if the cops ask you what I was doing on the night of June 6th, tell them I was in the corner, playing the saxophone like it was a piano.
Life will hack off your head and shit down your neck every chance it gets. I've found that consuming drugs and booze, listening to music and always having an excuse in the best way to tip the scales.
So you mean to tell me you won't fuck anyone you don't share some kind of deep emotional connection with? What a sad, depressing, truly horrible life you must lead...
their suburbia house in Brentwood" was how she referred to the house when we bought it, a twelve-year-old establishing that it was not her decision, not her taste, a child claiming the distance all children imagine themselves to need.
I tell you this true story just to prove that I can. That my frailty has not yet reached a point at which I can no longer tell a true story.
Alcohol, I had learned, was an eloquent if somewhat inaccurate interpreter. I had placed my trust that December night in glass after glass of it, eager not for drink but for a bit of talk.
That night's show was watched by ten million people, so I guess that director at The Second City who said the audience "didn't want to see a sketch with two women" can go shit in his hat.
A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the night wind began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a breath from another world.
Ultimately, my love saved me, for my love gave me strength. At night, when sleep was sunwilling to rescue me, I gritted my teeth and devoured my fondest memories.
